


we loved with a love that was more than love

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Inception, Angst, Deathfic, F/F, I am so sorry, god this is so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison had just wanted to get her home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we loved with a love that was more than love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Allison/Lydia, because I was terribly depressed when I clicked on their couple tag and only found six fics written the pairing (only two or so of which are actually focused on them in particular). I really didn't mean to write something so terribly depressing.
> 
> This fic follows on non-linear timeline.

Allison had just wanted to get her home.   
  
*   
  
Looking back on it now, when she's alone in the bed that they used to share together, before 'the incident', Allison can pinpoint the exact moment she let Lydia's world fall apart ( _ let _ being the operative term here, because it was more like "forcefully push and pry"). Allison can put her finger on the exact point in time when she took the key that held Lydia Martin's world together and tore it down because she could, because she wanted to, because she  _ needed _ to.    
  
Allison would tell herself that she did the right thing, that eventually Lydia would come around, because Lydia was Lydia and she was sharp intelligence wrapped in the looks of a goddess.

 

Lydia would understand. Lydia would see reason.

 

She would come around because Allison would will her to.   
  
Because Lydia, at some point in time, would do absolutely anything for Allison.

*  
  
At least, Allison thinks, at least she had good intentions.  
  
*  
  
Lydia didn’t come back around.  
  
*  
  
They would've been stuck down there.  
  
They would've been stuck because Lydia doesn't let go of the things she likes when she's supposed to. She holds on and wraps herself around them, makes them hers, makes it so they can't leave. She’s done it always, and why Allison thought _this_ , that dreaming would be any different–well, Allison was a fool, a fool inspired by love and blinded by awe, and it cost her everything.  
  
It's what she did to Allison, too, but it's not like Allison actually cared about that. Allison _liked_ that, liked how Lydia would insinuate herself into Allison's personal space like she belonged there, how she would buy Allison presents and flowers without being obvious about buying into her affection–even though that was what she was doing, because Allison knows everything about Lydia, knows that there's nothing Lydia could ever hide from her–when she didn't have to, because Allison was wrapped around Lydia's sneaky little finger.  


  
Allison knows this, and she knew it then, too.   
  
They'd been there for years by that point, trapped in each other's warmth in the way that most people don't get to know, either because they're too busy or because they don't know how to let go enough to let it happen.   
  
Lydia’s hair was graying at the roots from where she’d gotten too lazy to keep dying it, and her eyes wrinkled every time she smiled, but she wasn't the intoxicating girl Allison had fallen for.  
  
She was Lydia, but a Lydia that Allison couldn't bring herself to like, a Lydia that had taken her Lydia by the throat and had strangled everything good out of her.  
  
Her Lydia had never been too brittle to walk to the bathroom without getting out of breath, and the words “lazy” and “Lydia” had never been so directly correlated before. It scared Allison to her core, made her bones shake with her panic, because as the world they kept building became more beautiful, the more the light faded from Lydia’s eyes.  
  
Allison didn’t like it.  
  
*  
  
Allison didn’t like it, so she changed it.  
  
*  
  
“We have to go back,” Allison had whispered, lips pressing a thin line against the skin of Lydia’s cheek.  
  
“To the supermarket?” Lydia asks, playing coy, always so coy, even with Allison.  
  
“No,” Allison says, even though she’s sure Lydia knows what she means, that Lydia _has_ to know what she means; she’s _Lydia_.  
  
Lydia knows everything.  
  
“To where?” Lydia asks, voice lilting high and confused.  
  
“Back to reality,” Allison whispers.  
  
Lydia chuckes. “Darling,” she says and turns her face to press a kiss on Allison’s nose. “We are in reality.”  
  
Allison nearly chokes, chokes on nothing, there’s nothing to choke on.  
  
“Allison?” Lydia’s concerned, now, voice scratchy with age and something else, something that’s withered her down to a woman that Allison barely recognizes. “You do know that this is reality, right?”  
  
Allison just nods, and doesn’t correct her, because she knows that Lydia wouldn’t listen to her anyway.  
  
*  
  
Lydia stopped using her totem after their twentieth year.  
  
Allison didn’t stop her, but now, _now_ she wishes she had.  
  
*  
  
“Let’s go to Paris,” Lydia whispered to Allison one night, when they were still young and pretty and reckless. “It’s always been my favorite.”  
  
“Okay."  
  
So, Allison built her Paris.  
  
*  
  
It was easier than Allison thought it would be, to break into Lydia’s box and plant something new. It was too easy, almost, it was simple enough to slip away while Lydia was sleeping, tucked under the covers in the bed they shared, in the house they built together, to sneak into Lydia’s childhood home and take her thunder.  
  
Allison hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t meant to start the domino effect that it had sprouted, she didn’t mean to take Lydia’s heart in her hands and crumble it to pieces.  
  
But that didn’t matter, now, because Lydia was dead and Allison was the culprit, and her hands were painted crimson.   
  
*  
  
"We have to go home," Allison whispered.  
  
"This isn’t reality," Allison urged.  
  
"This isn’t ours," Allison said.  
  
*

  
Lydia listened.

 

*

The fall back to reality had been gratifying.   
  
Allison could only hope that Lydia thought so, too.   
  
*   
  
Allison supposes she knew she had royally fucked up when she walked into the kitchen one morning to find Lydia running her fingers across the blade of a knife.   
  
“Lydia,” Allison said, approaching carefully.   
  
Lydia looked up, and smiled,  _ beamed _ at her, even, her eyes full of the lies that Allison put there. They were true before, true down  _ there _ , but here, they don’t hold true. They couldn't. “We can do it, Allison, we can do it.”   
  
“Do what?”    
  
“We can bring ourselves back. Bring ourselves back to reality, to Scott and to Stiles and to Derek and Jackson. We can bring our–”   
  
Allison sneaks up behind her and slips the knife away, tucking Lydia’s hand into her own instead. “No,” Allison murmurs, “we can’t,” and at Lydia’s perplexed stare, adds on, “we can’t go back because we’re already there.”   
  
Lydia’s quiet for a while, and just when Allison’s about to walk away, to hide the knife from Lydia, she says, “I know you’ll come around, Allison, you always do.”   
  
*   
  
Allison didn’t come around.   
  
*   
  
It happens on their anniversary.   
  
Allison brings her to Paris, because it’s still Lydia’s favorite place and she thinks that maybe this will cajole Lydia into finally believing her–she knows it won’t, though, because Lydia’s done that thing where she’s wrapped herself around an idea, and once Lydia does that she doesn’t let go.    
  
(Lydia didn’t let go.)   
  
For the first few days, everything’s fine. Lydia doesn’t try to throw herself on any kitchen knives anymore, and the haunting look in her eyes has melted away a little. For the first few days, Allison waits for Lydia to do something, to drown herself in her bath or to wrap herself in the phone cord, but nothing happens.    
  
For the first few days, everything’s perfect.   
  
*   
  
On the fourth day, Allison returns to the hotel room to find Lydia perched on the high rise, feet dangling, dangling down.   
  
“Lydia,” Allison gasps, like the word’s punched out of her, because it _is_.   
  
There’s no stopping her, not now, and Allison knows that there never really was.   
  
Lydia was keen on dying, because she didn’t think anything was real.   
  
And because Allison wasn’t real, Lydia didn’t even look back once before she jumped.

 

Allison's scream, when it finally comes, is silent.

  


*  
  
Allison hopes Lydia felt no pain, even now.  
  
*  
  
Allison sometimes wonders what it would’ve been like if they were different. If maybe Allison and Lydia weren’t two starstruck teenagers fascinated by living life through dreams, if they were a few years older and had children, that maybe things would’ve turned out differently.   
  
That maybe Lydia would still be alive.  
  
Maybe they wouldn’t have gone at all.  
  
Maybe they would’ve been _happy_.  
  
*  
  
Sometimes, when Allison is alone in the bed that they used to share, lying naked between the sheets, it’s almost like Lydia is still there with her, pressing attentive and gentle hands to her back, running her fingers through her hair.  
  
Sometimes, Allison can almost forgive herself.  
  
*  
  
(Allison never forgives herself.)  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Anabel Lee' by EAP.


End file.
